


This I Choose

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Tourney at Harrenhal, hisses at fandom victim blaming, in every universe Rhaegar is a moron that deserves no rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24745411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Some things change; others don't. How Rhaegar might have interpreted prophecy in a different world.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 88
Kudos: 98
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

He’d unhorsed Ser Barristan and accepted the champion’s crown and the cheers still went on.

Rhaegar Targaryen surveyed the crowd as he circled the field to find where his betrothed sat. He should crown her with flowers, then return to his chambers with his harp until the feast. On any other day, he would. But the sky was blue and the air warm and for just a moment, his eye was drawn to where the sunlight glinted against the strands of gold thread woven through a different woman’s dark hair. Just a moment, at first, until he couldn’t help but look longer.

The Princess Elia’s gown, too, was gold, a paler shade than what was threaded through her hair. It became her. She was radiant in the sunshine, eyes bright and warm. She sat beside her younger brother, their heads tilted together. Elia’s hand covered her mouth as she giggled at some private joke. It had been years since Rhaegar had last seen her, but he could still remember the infectiousness of Elia Martell’s laugh. Even though he couldn’t hear it now, Rhaegar’s lips began to form an answering smile. That smile froze on his face when his eyes fell upon the Martell banner draped before the siblings.

A red sun, pierced with a golden spear.

A bleeding star.

Of course, how could he have been so _blind_? She was _perfect_. Elia Martell, with dragon blood running through her own veins through Daeron the Good’s sister, far closer to his age than his betrothed. She was clever and kind and with the potential to be a great queen. They could have been wed by now – they could have already had a son, even.

It wasn’t too late.

He was betrothed, not married, and if he remembered right, Elia’s own wedding wouldn’t be for several moons. Those betrothals could be broken. He was the crown prince! They could wed, the next Daeron and Myriah. They could…and they would. It would be their son, not him, that was the prince that was promised.

He rode past Lyanna Stark and lay the crown of roses on Elia’s lap. Oberyn stopped talking. Elia’s warm, laughing eyes went very wide. Rhaegar inclined his head to her.

 _Of course,_ he thought. The two of them would save the world. The two of them would raise a hero. But for now, Rhaegar Targaryen just pulled off his helm, shook loose his hair, and left the field without turning back to acknowledge the whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

Elia frowned at the crown, then looked back up to wrinkle her nose at her younger brother. “What was he _thinking_?”

Oberyn shrugged expansively. “I assume he simply recognized that you’re more beautiful than all the little girls in the stands beside us. They’re just roses. Who cares?”

“Just about everyone here,” Elia grumbled. “You know as well as I do how they’ll talk. _Oh, the Dornishwoman is so wanton, she must have enticed him somehow. Poor Baelor, having to marry her._ ”

“ _You_ are a princess of Dorne,” her brother said, careless as ever, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. “ _They_ are nobodies that know better than to say anything like that around you, or me. What does it matter what they think?”

“Them? Nothing. But Rhaegar is far from nobody, and he’s _betrothed,_ ” Elia pointed out. She tossed the flower crown onto the bed and shook her head in disgust. “And so am I! He might as well have called me a whore and announced his intention to take me as his for the whole realm to see.”

Quick as a snake, Oberyn’s amusement fell away.

“Shall I challenge him to a duel?” he asked. “Say the word, and I’ll do it.”

Elia had to laugh. “No!”

She rose from her chair and took her brother by the arm. “Don’t do anything rash. It’s only a few more days before we’ll return to Dorne. This will be forgotten soon enough, I promise.”

Oberyn’s scowl deepened. Elia bumped him with her shoulder. “Come on, walk me back to my room. I have to dress for the feast.”

Oberyn’s scowl didn’t quite dissipate, even as he opened the door for her and they began to make their way down the halls side by side, but he brightened when she coaxed him to tell her about the history of this mostly ruined castle and obliged her. She knew most of it, of course, but Oberyn somehow made it sound completely new. His eyes gleamed and he gestured with his hands and even though Elia had mostly asked to distract him, every word was too fascinating to ignore. The chamber she’d been granted was a mere few paces from his, and once they arrived, she perched on the edge of the bed to listen to the rest of his explanation.

“Some say that the mortar is made with the blood of the men that died building it,” Oberyn finished, reaching out to knock on the wall. “And of all the myths of this place, that seems the most likely to be true. Animal blood strengthens the binding, makes the stones hold together far better than mortar without it. Much of the castle has crumbled, but this tower, Kingspyre Tower, bathed in the blood of the last Hoares, still stands usable.”

Elia smiled. “Did you try that at the Citadel? The blood mortar?”

“You know me so well.” Oberyn’s grin faded. Abruptly, he asked, “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to challenge the little dragon prince to a duel? He dares –”

“ _Don’t._ It’s not worth it. Not over this.” Elia raised her eyebrows teasingly when Oberyn didn’t look convinced. “Besides…Doran will be upset if you start a war. Haven’t you caused enough chaos for at least the next year?”

And Oberyn laughed.

“I take your point.” His shoulders relaxed, and this time, when his eyebrows drew together in a fierce scowl, Elia knew he was jesting. “But he better not try anything else!”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy stood guard at the door. As Rhaegar drew near, both inclined their heads.

“My prince,” Ser Arthur murmured as Ser Barristan pushed open the door. “He’s waiting for you.”

Rhaegar nodded. “Thank you.”

He took a deep breath and walked inside. As the door closed behind him, he lowered his head and knelt. “Father.”

Aerys stood with his back to his son. His clothes hung off him, unwashed white hair tangled down his back as if he were decades older than he was in truth. When he turned, his eyes gleamed and he bared his yellowed teeth in a gruesome mockery of a smile down at where Rhaegar remained, at his feet.

“You caused quite the stir,” he chortled. “Stand up.”

Rhaegar obeyed. Aerys raised his eyebrows. “Not the kind of thing I’d have expected out of _you._ ”

Rhaegar thought back to the string of mistresses in his youth and bit his tongue hard. His father didn’t seem to notice, continuing, “The girl is pretty enough, I suppose. Certainly prettier than most of the others there. But what was that all about?”

 _Now or never,_ Rhaegar thought, and said, “I wish to break my betrothal to the Stark girl. Princess Elia would be a better bride.”

His father narrowed his indigo eyes. “What do you want her for? You’re not wed yet, there’s nothing stopping you from bedding her.”

Careful, careful, like how Loreza Martell had made an art form out of seeding an idea into any lord’s head and making him believe it was his own thought. If he did it right…

“I saw you looking at her,” Rhaegar said. “When you took your seat. You’re right.”

“I’m right?” Aerys echoed, but there was a spark in his eye, and Rhaegar knew then he had him. No one valued the Targaryen history more than his father. No one was more aware of their family lineage. If Rhaegar appealed to that streak of vanity…

“She has Valyrian blood,” he pointed out. “Both from Daenerys and from Drazenko Rogare. Lyanna Stark doesn’t have so much as a drop. And she’s old enough that we could marry now. Our house is dying, Father. I need sons.”

Aerys had wanted him to wed the Stark girl because the north could offer little support, and Rhaegar had agreed, because what did it matter who he married? But it did. He knew that now.

“There’s still Viserys,” Aerys said. “We’re not dead yet.”

_Careful._

“No,” Rhaegar agreed. “But a dynasty will be stronger with more. And Elia Martell is better fit to be a mother of dragons.”

 _Better fit to be a mother of princes, better fit to be a queen._ He knew better than to say that, but it hung in the air between them like a storm cloud. For once, his father didn’t seem angered.

“True,” the king said. “If the girl is half the woman Loreza was, she will be.”

He nodded, slowly, then with growing enthusiasm. “I’ll allow it. We’ll announce it at the feast tonight.”

Rhaegar bowed. “Thank you, Father.”

Aerys waved a hand dismissively. Rhaegar rose and strode out the door. If he’d bothered to look, he would have seen Arthur’s sister, standing beside her brother, mouth open and eyes fixed on his back in horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More bad decisions! Fun.


	4. Chapter 4

“He wants _what_?” Elia demanded. “Is he mad?”

Ashara could only shake her head.

“I’ll kill him,” Oberyn said. “The little tyrant dares demand your hand as if it’s something his father can give him?”

 _Don’t do anything rash,_ Elia had said. _It’ll be forgotten soon enough._

And the laurel would have been. But this was not a mere crown of flowers that would be dead in a few days. This was a _marriage_ the prince wanted. One that would infuriate more than one powerful house.

Oberyn was watching her. “Elia? Tell me what you’d have me do and I’ll do it.”

“Wait,” Ashara said. “Shouldn’t you alert Prince Doran before doing anything?”

“We can’t,” Oberyn said. “Our brother is too far. By the time word reaches him, it’ll be too late to do anything. Whatever is done must be by us.”

Elia nodded sharply. She grabbed her cloak and fastened it about her shoulders.

“I need to find Baelor,” she said. “I think it best if we move our wedding up a few months.”

“Hold on,” Ashara interrupted. “Are you sure about this? You’d be queen one day. That’s no small thing. The Hightowers may be wealthy, but it’s nothing compared to –”

Oberyn scoffed and Elia shook her head. “I don’t know what the prince has got into his head, but I don’t like this. It would have been one thing if he’d come to me, or even Doran, but instead, he asked his father to break off our betrothals and _force_ me into it? And you saw Aerys. He’s not well. I don’t trust him to manage this in a way that won’t harm Dorne. Ashara, with me. Oberyn, I need you to find a septon.”

Oberyn was already shaking his head before the last word left her mouth. “I am not leaving you. Ashara can find the septon.”

Elia grabbed his arms. “I need her, Oberyn. She’s the one that heard Rhaegar. Baelor needs to hear it from her.”

Oberyn’s scowl deepened. “What, he won’t believe you?”

“Maybe not,” Elia said, and her hands tightened on her brother’s arms. “I don’t want to risk that he won’t. Trust me.”

“I always do,” Oberyn snapped. “It’s _them_ that I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” Elia admitted. “But I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

Her brother’s glare was mutinous, as if he were answering a challenge. She tilted her chin up and met his gaze, as evenly as their mother always had. She was the elder. Her word was law. Oberyn looked away first. He jerked his head in a reluctant nod.

Elia let her shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you.”

“Be quick about it,” he said. “Meet me by the sept.”

Elia didn’t even have time to nod before he’d pulled free from her grip and left the room to carry out her command. She took a deep breath and followed him out the door, Ashara at her heels, walking in the opposite direction down the hall.

“Have you seen any of the Hightowers today?” she asked. “Are they staying in the castle, or did they bring a pavilion?”

“Baelor has a pavilion,” Ashara said. “To the east, not far from the gate.”

Elia nodded sharply and picked up the pace. Harrenhal was so enormous that by the time they made it to ground level, her lungs were burning. It was almost a relief when a voice stopped them – “Ashara.”

For a moment, Elia was too busy catching her breath to worry. But then the face of the man that had called out to Ashara became clear: Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

_Shit._

A knight of the Kingsguard, the prince’s best friend – where Arthur Dayne was, Rhaegar Targaryen would not be far away. Elia was not stupid enough to believe this was a coincidence.

Ser Arthur bowed to her. “May I borrow my sister for a moment, Princess?”

She had no choice but to nod, dread creeping over her. Ashara cast her a panicked look over her shoulder as her brother led her a few steps away. Just as Elia was drawing in a breath to tell her companion to catch up with her later, Ashara’s eyes widened with horror. A hand clamped around Elia’s upper arm. She whirled around.

“Princess Elia,” the crown prince said, smiling at her. “How good to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone doing with...*gestures broadly around* everything? Sorry, I have been extremely, extremely distracted. Though in case you're interested, while I was distracted, I wrote [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277280) fic. It's extremely different from this one, but I dunno, you guys might like it.


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